Life This Way
by Chiimeriical
Summary: This is how it went each day: Snape's eyes would pass over her, a sneer on his face and a challenge in his expression. And she would do nothing to prove herself to him, because she wasn't a know-it-all. Not anymore.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: I'd be witty if I could. Alas, I've not the talent. Instead, I'll humble myself before the awesome might of my beta Lue'cleste, and wave wearily at all you wonderful readers out there. (All ten of you.) **

**Disclaimer: Not mine. They all belong to that very brilliant, very rich woman whose last name is not my own. **

**Warning: The line breaks—see: "horizontal rulers"—are very awkward. Please pass on my apologies to your eyes. I'm working on it.**

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* * *

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She would be the first to admit that she was not as strong as she looked. Understanding one's flaws, she had learned, was a necessary part in growing up too quickly, and admitting to such flaws, she now knew, had the added benefit of grounding one in reality. But, in the aftermath of the Second Wizarding War, she felt that the less time she spent rooted in truth and reality, the better.

The truth was tragically simple: the war was a test, and she had failed. And not only had she failed, she had failed _miserably_. She had failed to keep everyone she knew—hell, everyone simply _involved—_alive, and more importantly, she had failed to save the world. And if the brightest witch of her age (namely, her) could not accomplish such a thing, then in her mind, she did not deserve the title at all.

She knew some might say that her believing she had let the world down smacked of self-pity and self-importance—not that she talked much now to anyone anyway, and even if she did manage to open her mouth and do more than croak out a greeting, she'd never admit to her failings aloud—but she felt that she was justified in her convictions.

_She_ was supposed to be the one to help everyone along. She knew she wasn't the heroine in this story; she knew she likely would _never_ be the heroine in _any_ plot, because she was the smart one, and goodness knew that the smart ones would always be in the background, but she didn't desire the main role and the attention it received. What she desired was to live up to her moniker; to live up to that heavy burden, made up of the words "Brightest Witch of Her Age", that was placed so squarely on her shoulders at such a tender time in her life—but she hadn't been able to accomplish what she set out to do.

And thus Hermione Granger, now self-titled the Brightest Witch of Her Age No Longer, knew that it was time to reassess her magical confidence.

She was not surprised to realize she no longer possessed any.

* * *

After the final battle had been lost and won, Hogwarts had been partially rebuilt in haste. She saw it as a desperate attempt on the Ministry's part to show that the magical world was healing as rapidly as possible. But when the letter came asking whether she'd like to attend classes once again, she didn't pause to consider. She penned a quick letter of acceptance, and soon it was on its way back to the castle. She arrived weeks after the note, her mind still semi-numb.

Whenever she traveled through her old school, tracing the pathways she took as a young child from one class to another, she felt like she walked around with half a soul, her steps heavy but her body light. That intrinsic thrum she used to feel when the soles of her feet connected with the stones of the castle was gone, and whether that was due to the partial destruction of the castle or the loss of—there was no other way to describe it—the _brightness_ of her magic, she no longer wanted to know. Either reason depressed her.

This was not the only change she had undergone. The lessons in self-taught temperance she had once learned when it came to answering questions had been forgotten, simply because she didn't raise her hand anymore. It felt too heavy to hold up, most of the time. Her professors, now relegated to the title of fellow soldiers in her eyes, were either too bound up in their own grief to notice, or had simply decided that discretion was the greater part of valor and thought it wise to keep silent.

* * *

One night, during her second week into what the teachers insultingly (in her opinion) termed "Remedial NEWT Classes", Hermione had been slogging through the massive workload she had signed herself up for—she found the late nights served as a type of penance for her military failures – and had realized something important during her third hour of work. Looking back, being now blessed with the perfect—if infuriatingly ill-timed—vision and understanding that accompanied hindsight, Hermione could fully admit that her early school years were comprised of the same student drudgery that she was experiencing currently, and served not as the period of scholarly exploration she once believed they had. And as with most things associated with retrospect and hindsight, this realization dealt her already beleaguered heart a crippling blow.

During her fourth hour of work that night, she accomplished nothing, because every time she picked up her quill to write out a hypothesis about the benefits of using Latin root words when creating charms, her parchment would be dotted with tears before she made the first stroke of ink.

* * *

Today was Monday, the beginning of an interminably long week of work. She stared blankly at the canopy of her bed, her vision blurry but her mind clear. There was no more excitement in her schedule. She knew exactly what would happen.

She would sit up. She would search haphazardly for her glasses on the small table, pick them up with a sigh and put them on, readjusting them brusquely with her index finger so that they rested on the bridge of her nose. She'd have to do that frequently during the day, but that was all fine, because it kept her hands busy. She would look sadly at the tangle of curls on her head in one of the communal mirrors in the girls' dormitory, but decide that nothing could be done. She would pull on her uniform with steady hands, but do nothing to adjust the way it hung on her frame. Then she would make her way slowly to the Great Hall, with its flickering ceiling charm that sometimes showed the sky, sometimes not, and eat a small breakfast. She'd take a piece of fruit and wrap it up for a snack if she got hungry midday. She would then make her way to class, her bulging messenger bag thumping her leg as she trekked onwards. And in class, she would sit, her hand never up, her wide eyes behind her unflattering frames blinking somewhat owlishly, her spirit a testament to her intelligence, once brilliant, now rusted with insecurity and doubt.

And no one would ask her any questions. She might get some casual greetings in the hallways, or mayhap not.

And Professor Snape's eyes would pass over her, a sneer on his face and a challenge in his expression.

And she would do nothing to prove herself to him, because she wasn't a know-it-all. Not anymore.

* * *

She had lost count of the weeks she had spent at Hogwarts. She no longer remembered the days by their name, but by what work she would have to complete by the end of the night. She found this an existence befitting someone who had made such a poor showing during times of crisis.

_Tonight is Advanced Potions night. This night is for you, Remus, because you died still suffering from lycanthropy. You should have been free from that curse before you passed away. I should have searched for a cure, something better than Wolfsbane. I should've done more._

On Advanced Potions night, the work would keep her up for two hours. Sometimes her hand would cramp. She had healing balms for such things, but she couldn't bring herself to open them.

_Remus didn't have an immediate cure for his pain, so why should I have the right that was denied him?_

The jars, with their untouched contents, stayed in their drawer.

* * *

This morning was different, because today Ron and Harry actually spoke more than five words to her during breakfast. There had been no official falling out, but there was a tacit understanding between the three that things were not the same. While Hermione had withdrawn inside herself as a method of comfort, the two boys had sought solace outside, under the sun on the Quidditch pitch. Two such incompatible methods of personal healing did not a good friendship make, and while Hermione understood that she had done nothing to earn scorn or disapproval from her friends, she still felt somewhat betrayed by their willingness to move on without her.

The interaction had gone well. They had bid her good morning, and she softly returned the sentiment. They had asked her how her work was going. She had replied that it was hard, but manageable. Then, apropos of nothing, Ron had asked her why she insisted on wearing glasses when there were corrective potions on the market that fixed such things instantly. She had looked into Harry's bespectacled eyes, as if looking into the eyes of someone with as bad eyesight as hers might provide an answer, but all she saw in his green irises was father worship and a desire to look like James. Her reason was not as simple. So she replied cheerily that the glasses only reinforced her intellectual aura and turned back to her meal.

Later that night, she held the vial of Eye Restoration potion in shaky hands, but she couldn't bring herself to drink it down. She thought of Remus. She thought of Tonks. She thought of Dumbledore, of Moody, and even of Hedwig; she thought of how they had all died, and she hadn't been able to do anything to save them.

No, the glasses stayed, because if the war saw fit to bequeath her with spell-damaged eyes and not something worse, then she didn't feel she had to right to change it. In fact, she rather felt like she _deserved_ it.

The potion, like her healing balms, stayed in its drawer.

* * *

She figured a month or two had passed by now. Harry and Ron talked to her most mornings, and she was slowly learning to speak more than thirty words a day. This morning she had Potions class, and after a somewhat halting conversation with the Gryffindor student next to her, she made her way almost cheerily to the dungeons, proud at her personal progress.

Class was halfway through before she realized that the urgent press on the back of her mind was a question waiting to be asked. The epiphany made her eyes widen. It was a _question—_she was _curious_ again—and the experience was so novel to her now that she nearly gasped. In her haste to cling to that once-lost, now-found feeling of inquisitiveness, she rushed up to the front of the class. She hadn't been paying attention, so she hadn't noted the small simmering cauldron that stood sentry near Snape's desk as he sat grading essays. Her question was on the tip of her tongue when the clattering and splashing of the tipped-over vessel reached her ears. She narrowly missed the cauldron's spray as it rolled on the floor. The question—that glorious, beautiful thing—had died in her mouth, and before she could formulate an apology, she was face-to-face with a very angry Snape.

"You foolish girl, have you any idea what your ineptitude has just ruined? I have been brewing that potion for _months_. The ingredients I have utilized in that potion are hideously expensive, but the monetary cost means nothing in comparison to the amount of time I have personally dedicated to the its overall creation," he hissed through clenched teeth, still somehow managing to make his words clear, cutting, and easily heard by all. "And they call _you_ the brightest witch of your age? Sweet Circe; no one should think you even _magical_, let alone _bright_, with those slow reflexes and that clumsiness. No one has ever quite so utterly and thoroughly destroyed my work."

His voice, previously sibilant and menacing, now dropped lower, acquiring a gravelly quality that made her innards quake in dread. "Sit back down, Miss Granger, before I do something I might regret."

She could not follow his command. Hermione's feet, traitorous things that they were, were rooted to the spot. She made no sound as she withstood his tirade, and after he had let the wind out of his sails, the room fell, if possible, even more deadly silent.

She didn't know what to do. Her eyes shifted wildly behind her glasses, her lips quivered slightly, and yet her feet still refused to move. It was as if they demanded she hold her ground, regardless of whether body wanted otherwise. Snape, too, seemed frozen in place, his face stoic and unmoving.

Her eyes refocused slowly on his figure. They started at his feet, then made their way up to his eyes, the gleam in them redolent of indolence. (Ron later told her she looked like she was sizing him up, to her great embarrassment.) Surprisingly, the challenge that she expected to see reflected in his irises was no longer present.

And suddenly, it angered her. She didn't know what _it _was, but by Merlin, _it_ made her absolutely furious. It would be cliché to say that something within her snapped, because in all honestly, she felt no physical sensation—merely the chill associated with the dungeons and the itch of her uniform's fabric. But something within Hermione did seem to click into place within her mind, and all at once, nothing else seemed to matter besides devoting all her energy towards loathing Snape.

Her cheeks flamed red. Her shoulders squared themselves and her chin lifted itself. She swore she felt better than she had in months.

"Are you daft as well?" Snape snapped at her brusquely, his feet having inconspicuously taken a step back at the determined elevation of Hermione's chin.

Hermione smirked, and she relished the feeling. Contempt felt _good_. "No sir. Of course not."

His eyes narrowed. "Then why do you have such trouble following a simple directive? I told you to sit, yet…" He trailed off, his eyes implying the unspoken "_you're still standing, you twit"._

Hermione suppressed a chuckle, but as evinced by the glower on Snape's face, she hadn't done all that good a job of it. "I apologize, sir. It took a second for me to internalize all that you'd said. I'll take my seat." She made an about-face on her heel, its sharp turn seeming as disrespectful a gesture as could be attained in the circumstances. She thrilled with the small victory of having denied him the last word, and not even the scorching eyes she knew were trained on her retreating figure could diminish her joy.

* * *

When class ended and Snape gave his customary dismissal, Hermione slowly and carefully made her way towards the door, refusing to taint her victory with any display of childish insolence. When the door shut behind her, she nearly had to physically restrain herself from punching her fist into the air and giving a jubilant whoop.

This was so new a feeling that it exhilarated her. She was sure that this was what it was like to have the blinders taken off. For too long, she had paid blind respect to her professors, seeing them as the almighty adjudicators of her success and education. From her early days in school, she learned immediately that teachers were _always_ to be respected. They were mature. They were intelligent. They knew all the information that she so desperately wanted for her own.

But now, thanks to Snape and his utterly misdirected heartlessness, she knew that professors were _human_. If this was disenchantment, she felt like she never wanted it to end.

But along with her jubilation came rage, directed solely towards Snape. He had _no right_ to criticize her, had _no right_ to question her magical abilities. How dare he vocalize those cruel thoughts aloud? How dare he air his opinion of her in so public a forum?

No matter if the words he had said aligned perfectly with the image she now held of herself. _She_ was the only one allowed to think such things. _She_ was the only one aloud to lambaste herself for her failures, and he had _no right_ to be so wretchedly cruel!

She stalked down the hallway angrily, her steps heavy with the vehement emotion of self-righteousness. For the first time in a long while, she felt the thunder in her mind and soul that signified the meeting of her magic with the castle's magic, and even though her glasses were slipping down her nose with the jerkiness of her pace, she felt like she had no need to push them up again.

She saw everything newly, and everything clearly.

No one questioned her magical talent except her, and if Snape thought he could have that privilege free of charge, then she felt it was high time Snape was taught a lesson in respect.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: See? Not abandoned. Part 2 of 3, and this is possibly the most I've ever written for a single chapter. Hopefully things are... more enjoyable to read now.**

* * *

It took a week for Hermione to stop biting the inside of her cheek in rage. Even when she dropped the habit in favor of formulating a plan, her tongue still worried at the wound, sending slight twangs of pain up her spine. Every twinge made her think of Snape, and it only made her angrier.

She _loathed_ him. She hadn't before, though she supposed she had gotten pretty close after he'd killed Dumbledore—but even then, it wasn't this seething, roiling green ooze that swamped her mind and clouded her vision, making her own mouth bitter as she swirled the taste of unspoken rage on her tongue. She wanted him to burn. She wanted him to rage. She wanted him to see what he had wrought in her and weep for his own cruelty, knowing that she would never, _ever_ forgive him for his words.

She didn't know how she could do it. She didn't have a plan, nor did she think she had the fortitude to hold a grudge until her dying day. She could try something petty, and embarrass him (because really, she thought administering a potion to Snape that would turn his hair hot pink and force him to speak in sentimental Shakespearean sonnets was a very fitting punishment), but that would only make her seem childish and petulant—not the type of statement she was hoping for. She needed something a little more muted.

Her goal, she decided, was not to lash out. What she wanted more than anything, even more than public humiliation, was to punish him for his cruelty and to prove him wrong. Since Snape lambasted her for her stupidity, she would prove herself more insufferably intelligent than ever before.

She was baffled, though, as to how to turn her intelligence into a means of hurting Snape.

She had already tried raising her hand for every question; it didn't hurt him, merely annoyed him. She had tried writing more than was necessary on her essays, as well; he merely returned the papers to her with an acceptable grade, a dark red line marking where the correct length was, and a scathing, scribbled comment in the margin about adhering to guidelines. Neither of those routes, it seemed to her, would bear any fruit, other than to bore him to death with their redundancy.

She scrolled through her memories of Snape's reactions to her in class, searching for clues that might tell her how to keep him off-kilter. As she thought it through, a pattern emerged: Snape was bothered more by the lack of a normal reaction than the presence of a predictable one.

He may have called her an "insufferable know-it-all" when she spoke out of turn about werewolves, but even she could admit that after the sting of the barb was gone, it seemed a rather lackluster tirade in comparison to the one he delivered as she stood paralyzed in front of his desk after knocking over his cauldron. In addition, the only time she ever turned to him imploringly for help, after Draco had hexed her teeth to beaver-like proportions, Snape had insulted her horridly, with words that stung more fiercely than any of his previous insults to her intelligence. In retrospect, it made sense—the man was probably so thunderstruck by the unprecedented request that he fell back on his reserves of bilious insults to keep order.

Hermione took out a piece of blank parchment and began to scribble furiously, devising multiple plans that she felt involved uncharacteristic responses on her part. Pointed inaction, she felt, was sure to stir Snape into a frenzy of confusion and anger. _Predictable is as predictable does. If I act like the know-it-all, he'll treat me like one. If I act like an above-it-all instead, he won't know what to make of me. _

Thus began the first phase of her plan. But first, she knew, she had to do some preliminary testing.

* * *

For the first part of her plan to work, Hermione was banking on her teachers' inability to stop gossiping. Logic told her that in an isolated school where outside activity was scarce, the teachers would have a dearth of things to speak about. The main thing they _could_ talk about was the lives of their students, who they saw and scrutinized on a near-daily basis. Hermione bet that if she could come up with something suitably juicy, her teachers would take the bait and run with it. All she needed to do was find something spark-worthy.

At the moment, her parents were busy putting their lives back together. The relationship between parents and daughter was tenuous at best—surprise _Obliviates_ tended to do that to people—but even the pessimistic side of her had to agree that it was on the mend. She could use this situation, she decided, as a perfect way of testing how quickly news spread in the school.

She penned an affectionate, if conciliatory letter to her parents—a task she had set herself before she had sunk into self-pity, but had never gotten around to completing. The response came three days later at the best possible time, in the form of an owl careening into her cup of tea during breakfast in the Great Hall. As Hermione did not receive much mail, this was an event that much-remarked upon by her fellow students, and by a few of the teachers that were dining as well. Some professors, she saw, were notably absent, and she smiled at the thought of a perfect experimental set-up; the missing professors were the ones she would want to approach her, as they would serve as a good indication of how fast news traveled. She marked down in her mind the professors that weren't in attendance, and reminded herself to be attentive of if and when they approached her about what she had received. But first, she had to guarantee that this event wouldn't be dismissed out of hand.

She opened the letter tentatively, flashing a brave but watery smile at Harry, who sat across from her. He saw the return address and gave her a heartening grin, then made an exaggerated show of crossing his fingers for good luck. As she settled into reading, she was relieved that she didn't have to feign tears; the letter was more encouraging than she expected, and her small gasp of joy was genuine.

"Alright there, Hermione?" Ron asked from her left, his hand hovering over her shoulder, as if he was unsure of how he might be received if he gave it a friendly pat.

She turned to him and smiled widely, brushing her tears away as she replied, "Everything's lovely."

His hand finally reached its destination, and its warm weight soothed her. "Good. Don't know what happened to you, these last few weeks. You weren't you."

"I was likely depressed," she replied honestly. "But now that my parents are finally warming up to me…"

"Your parents!" He exclaimed, his volume turning a few other heads at the table. His voice then dropped, saying mournfully, "Some friends we are, forgetting something like that."

"Oh, don't be silly," she replied, the glow of happiness forcing her to let go of her past anger over their behavior. "I haven't made myself the most approachable person as of late, so it's hardly all your fault."

Harry chimed in, "No, Ron's right, Hermione. We've been pretty terrible mates. I feel like I haven't spoken to you in ages."

Hermione gave them both a rather warm smile. "I'm sure you'll both make it up to me. But right now, everything's perfectly fine. I'm just glad my parents decided to give me another chance."

Ginny, who had been sitting next to Harry and endeavoring not to eavesdrop, started at this and grinned at Hermione.

"I'm happy for you," she said, raising her goblet of pumpkin juice as if to give a toast. "Three cheers for Hermione!"

Harry and Ron scrambled to copy Ginny, and soon all four of them were laughing, rejoicing in their regained easiness of friendship.

Soon, what with Harry, Ron, and Ginny's enthusiastic responses, the news spread down the table of Hermione's letter and her happiness.

As the breakfast crowd began to thin out, Hermione sat back with a satisfied grin. If everything proved itself satisfactory in this trial run, finishing the plan's first phase would be ridiculously easy.

* * *

Hermione's experiment was concluded as early as lunchtime the next day. As she stumbled through the doors towards the Great Hall (she had been so sure she could carry five books, but it seemed she had been too optimistic), Professor Vector approached her with a smile. The usually-strict woman's expression was novel, but hardly unwelcome, and Hermione responded with a smile of her own.

"Hello, Professor," she said respectfully.

"Miss Granger, I've just heard the good news from Minerva about your parents. I'm quite relieved to hear of it; you've looked quite troubled in class recently."

Hermione's contrite expression was genuine as she replied, "I'm very sorry about that. The whole situation with my family had cast a pall over everything; I just couldn't find the same enthusiasm for my work as I had before."

The Arithmancy professor waved the statement away with a flippant gesture of her hand. "Completely understandable. But I do hope this means you might be raising your hand in my class again soon." This last part was said partly in inquiry, but stated firmly enough to signal to Hermione that her professor was sure of her answer in the affirmative.

Hermione was quick to reassure her.

Vector gave her one last affectionate smile before ambling away.

Hermione didn't bother to hide her joy—Vector was one of the professors not in attendance at breakfast yesterday morning, which meant that, if something about Hermione were novel enough, it was now a proven fact that her professors would likely hear of it by the next day.

It seemed she'd be able to annoy Snape more expediently than she once thought.

Unfortunately, the groundwork necessary for her plan would render a one-day set up impossible. No matter how quickly word spread, the climax of her plan required multiple days of grunt work.

Hermione had figured that the reason Snape had not goaded her (at least verbally; those eyes of his, however, always spoke of a challenge) about not speaking up in class was because he was aware of her general classroom apathy. If she was not speaking up in any class, then what did he care if he didn't speak up in his?

But Hermione intended to slight him now, and treating him like she treated the majority of her teachers would not single him out, like she was hoping to do. And what she was hoping to do was, ironically, exactly what he had asked of her all along. But, by granting him his most fervent wish—for her to not speak in his class—she would not only be treating him differently than what he expected of her, but she would also be treating him differently than any other teacher, which would be bound to irk him.

All her plan needed was momentum, and soon she'd have Snape seething.

She figured it would be best to start in her comfort zone, so when Advanced Transfiguration class began with a normal round of discussion, she was sure to speak often and at length. It helped that every time she opened her mouth to ask a question or add an idea, McGonagall looked overjoyed at the fact she had bothered to speak at all.

After class, the Transfiguration professor held her back, the older woman's eyes soft with joy.

"I would just like to say, Miss Granger, that your enthusiastic participation in today's class was most heartening. I do hope that your enthusiasm will extend to more than today's lecture."

"Oh, of course!" Hermione gushed, giddy with the once-rusty feeling of intellectual recognition. "I feel as though I've woken up, after being asleep for weeks. How I managed to so thoroughly repress my normal enthusiasm is a mystery to me."

McGonagall patted her hand kindly, a gesture that, from a normally stern woman such as her, essentially equated to a large hug. "Whatever the reason, I'm just glad that it has returned. I won't look a gift horse in the mouth."

Hermione was struck by how genuine her professor's happiness was, and was suddenly quite angry with herself for so callously ignoring what her educational sabbatical must have done to her Head of House's trust. She was at once honored and cowed by the Scottish woman's faith in her.

"Thank you, Professor," she replied genuinely, deciding to hold momentarily the older woman's hand between two of her own in sincere affection. "I can't express how I grateful I am for your understanding and kindness."

McGonagall clucked chidingly at her. "Nonsense, child; don't thank me for such things. Every piece of respect I show you, you've earned with your work and dedication," she said, then added with mock-severity, "Now don't disappoint me."

Though meant in jest, Hermione took the fake warning seriously. "Never, Professor."

"To your next class, now, Miss Granger. I'm sure the others teachers will be just as delighted as I with your newfound confidence."

Hermione's devious smile was both comforting and worrying to the Transfiguration Mistress, but the woman kept silent.

Charms and Herbology went much the same way. Flitwick spoke to her kindly after class, and Sprout beamed at her as she hurried out of the greenhouse. Hermione knew it would not be long until she would have her revenge.

As she sat down to dinner, Hermione was busy calculating how much longer the initial stage would take before spurring a reaction. She figured that if the majority of teachers were to talk about her uptick in participation, Snape would have to take notice. So far, she'd been recognized by three. All she needed was for her Dark Arts' and Ancient Runes' professors to take notice of her newfound enthusiasm, and then she could sit back, watch the plot unfold, and smirk. Luckily, both classes were in her rotation tomorrow. She grinned at that, and then settled down to her meal with an expression that clearly spoke of hunger—whether for food or revenge, the quirk of her lips would never tell.

* * *

By the end of the week, Hermione was ready for the fruits of her toil to manifest. Nearly every professor she'd talked to had expressed joy at her participation, and if Snape hadn't heard from multiple sources already about how eager a student she'd become, then she'd swallow her own wand.

Making her way down to the dungeons, Hermione took quick inventory of her person—her hair was frizzy, as was to be expected, but not horrifically so; her school robes were pristine; her tie was straight and centered, and her glasses were polished and cleaned to a high shine. She figured if she weren't ready now, she'd never be.

She opened the large wooden door to the classroom calmly, assured in the success of her plan. A few students were already inside, sitting in uneasy silence. She took her own seat at the front of the classroom and organized her books just so, telling herself it wasn't out of nervousness.

Soon enough, Snape banged his way through the door, gliding up to his podium. The mere swish of his cloak connoted great malevolence. Hermione endeavored to steady her breathing, and trained her eyes somewhere to the right of his head.

"I would bid you all good morning," he said, sneering, "but it most certainly is _not_ good, and saying so would be an attempt in civility which none of you deserve. Take out your quills."

The normal shuffling of materials occurred, and as the general din rose, Hermione saw Snape fix her with an inscrutable look.

"Today, all you lucky children will be brewing Felix Felicis, and no," he said with a smirk, "before you ask, you cannot keep it. The top two samples, _if_ they pass my stringent inspection, _might_ win their brewers a small vial of product."

With a snap of his fingers, the list of ingredients appeared in his spidery scrawl up on the chalkboard. "The text starts on page two hundred forty-three. The directions on the board supplement the reading. Begin."

Hermione flipped to the designated page, unaware of the black eyes trained on her. The process seemed lengthy and likely required the utmost meticulousness; it was sure to take every ounce of her concentration. The slight disappointment she felt at not having the opportunity to not raise her hand (there was no rapid-fire question and answer session today, as was his wont) was swept away by the challenge presented by the brew.

* * *

_So the know-it-all has returned._

Snape was behind his lectern, his posture casual, but a study in quizzicality nonetheless. His brows were slightly furrowed, his chin supported by the heel of his palm as he braced his weight on the tall podium. Every few minutes, his dark eyes darted to the curly-haired woman bent over her cauldron. His ears were perked for her inevitable questions, but time passed, and they never came.

He slowly turned to glance up at the board, dusty white with his directions for the potion's creation. The words, printed in his signature scrawl, were far from clear; he had made sure of that. _But only to confuse the other students,_ he assured himself. _If it just so happens that Granger takes the bait, so much the better._

But no sound issued from her impertinent mouth. His jaw clenched in consternation, the shift of bone under his skin daring her to make a sound—and yet, nothing.

In time, a voice did waft towards him, hesitant and soft. A small smirk graced his mouth as he lifted up his head expectantly, the words "Yes, Miss Granger?" already forming on his lips, ready to be spoken acidly… only to die unspoken as he looked into the grey eyes of Draco Malfoy.

"Yes?" He snapped, thrown off-kilter by his assumption.

Malfoy had the good grace to look contrite. "I'm sorry, sir, but I cannot determine the number of stirs necessary for the 3rd step. It seems to be an indeterminate number between twenty-three and forty."

Snape sneered. "You'd best run to Pomfrey and get your eyes checked, boy. It clearly says thirty-two." He pretended to look concerned. "Do you need glasses, perhaps?"

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Hermione stiffen. A small part of his stomach sunk under the weight of his tactlessness. "Don't answer," he bit out. Draco wisely sat down.

For the rest of the class, Snape kept both his eyes trained on Hermione. She did nothing to indicate she knew of his attention, and her lack of reaction disappointed him. Where was the enthusiastic pupil his colleagues were raving about in the staff room? Where were her brilliant questions that they'd been parroting to him all this week? She didn't seem like the intellectual, sprightly ball of enthusiasm McGonagall or Flitwick or Sprout, or Vector, or Babbling—_even the Ancient Runes' professor, who barely ever leaves her room, for Merlin's sake!_—raved about.

Perhaps they were all mistaken. After all, here she was, in a class that had never before failed to incite her curiosity, with a set of directions so illegible even the pompous Malfoy boy had to ask about them, and still she remained silent. No, it must have been wishful thinking on his colleagues' part. Granger was still the owlish, mute shell she'd been since coming back to school.

He hadn't realized his fists had clenched at the thought, until he felt the bite of his nails stinging his palm. _You care_, the indents taunted, and he bared his teeth in a silent snarl, mentally taking ten points from every Gryffindor for the grievous offense of existing.

* * *

Snape was beginning to think his colleagues were delusional. For a week straight, they had been crowing about _Granger did this_ and _Granger did that_ and he wanted to smack them all upside the head with a sheaf of badly written essays, because any dolt could see that the girl was still silent and miserable and alone. Did they miss her so badly that they had to hallucinate about her intellectual rebirth?

He had watched her like a hawk that entire week, and she hadn't made a sound inside his classroom. She had been so silent that he had actually been tempted to brush by her station, just to make sure the girl was still breathing. He didn't indulge in the wish, but he did glance at her every so often to make sure her chest still rose and fell in rhythm. He always felt a bit warm afterwards, but he told himself it was just the novelty that came with feeling protective.

The days went on, and by the second week of his colleagues' raptures in the staff room, he was ready to brain them all with a sturdy, iron-bottomed cauldron. They were all but composing odes to her brilliance, trading stories of her smiles and her breathless answers over the lips of their teacups. As they spoke, a hard, tight mass was forming in his chest with every word, choking his voice and pinching his lips into a grimace. Every adulatory phrase drove a thin pin through his heart, which had climbed up his throat and had started to pound in his ears, a pressing tempo that made him wince. He did his level best to not hurl his teacup at the wall; instead, he set it down with a force that sloshed tea over the rim, onto the tablecloth. The brown stain spread its arms and reached for him as he fled, a whirl of black and sour regret.

* * *

He was watching her in the library. He hadn't meant to, but after his loss of control in the staff room, he had sought sanctuary among the silent books—tomes that could not speak to him of Hermione Granger's brilliance, and would not look at him oddly out of the corners of their eyes when his teeth clenched at the sound of her name—and there she had sat, mere feet away from his hiding place.

She was seated at desk, two books open in front of her. She was absorbing knowledge that she would then deign to share with her teachers and classmates—with anyone, really, except _him_. The thought made him shake with fury. This slip of a girl, this paragon of academic enthusiasm, standing at five foot five, dared exclude him? Dared treat him worse than anyone else in the entire school, (because although people reviled him, they certainly still _paid attention to him_), dared to treat him as if he were unworthy as a teacher, someone to be set aside and ignored? He, who had stood by Voldemort's side and lived through torture and grief and loneliness, who had lived through treachery on the slimmest edge of a blade that no other man dared to tread? No, she would not ignore him. She would speak of her own volition, or he would make her, because damn it all, he _missed_ her.

His expression turned mournful. He had missed her for months. After the war, he had looked for normalcy in any place he could; sought it in McGonagall's brusque brogue, in Hagrid's booming laugh, in the heft of his broom handle and the scrape of a stirrer against his cauldron's bottom. He had sought it from Granger, too, thinking that of all the immutable things in the world, she would be the one who would forever remain the same, bookish and tantalizingly curious, her questions like a shaft of light through the slats of his dreary existence. He half expected the first words out of her mouth when she arrived in his classroom, after fighting a war which rendered them both bloodied and insensate, to be something as quintessentially Granger as, "Sir, are there any experimental potions I can craft for extra credit?" To which he could snort disdainfully—such a blessedly _normal_ response—and throw her out of his classroom, with an admonition to not return until she understood his strict policy of _no extra credit_. As if she needed it, the twit.

But no such endearingly normal words ever came. Instead, she blinked behind those damned lenses of hers, looking like a slightly less deranged Trelawney, staring through everyone and not making a sound. She did her work, of course, and her grades didn't slip, but there was no spark in them. Her essays were passable, and adeptly written, but a key element in them was gone. Yet he found it difficult to penalize her for something he could hardly put into words—how could he tell her that her papers simply weren't Granger-y enough? It would hardly get a rise out of her; she'd likely just stare right through him and nod, unconcerned.

He knew he shouldn't have embarrassed her so thoroughly. She had deserved a tongue-lashing for her clumsiness, but even he had to admit he had gone above and beyond the call of duty in lambasting her. And yet, he had been furious, not only with his potion's demise, but also with her entire demeanor in these cold, creeping months after Voldemort's death. He was mad at her for not acting like she should; for not acting the way he expected her to, so that he could cling to her in his mind's eye with a soft smile sloppily covered by a grimace; for not being Hermione Granger, the steady anchor to his irascible chain. It was a fool's thinking, he knew, to set store by a woman-child's behavior and have it ground him, but his faith in her intelligence and her strength had been cemented over years of observing her in the school, and it seemed like such a unshakable guarantee that he couldn't help but take it for granted.

And yet here she was, no more immutable than a sapling in a storm's gale, snapped down the middle by what he assumed was guilt and depression. And those damned _glasses_; he wanted to rip them from her face and break them in his hands, then force-feed her an eye-correction potion and tell her to stop wallowing. He'd never do it, of course, but the thought gripped him, nonetheless.

And still, Hermione scribbled. She pushed a hank of her hair out of her face with a huff, looking very putout by her mane's behavior. Her quill scratched and paused with her thoughts, lulling Snape with its rhythm and keeping him immobile behind the stacks.

"Done," she breathed, shutting the book with a thud. "Done with Transfiguration, and Charms, and Herbology, and Defense and Arithmancy. No more homework for the week, and oh, won't Harry and Ron be jealous?" She smiled gleefully, rolling her shoulders back to get rid of the kinks. "Now I have time to spare."

Snape listened to her rattle off her assignments, his expression thunderous as the list went on with no mention of his two-foot essay on the darker side effects of Felix Felicis overuse. Now she was going so far as to not do his assigned work? He felt a vein begin to pulse behind his temple, and his mouth moved before his brain could filter it. "Detention, Miss Granger," he said, striding from between the rows of books. "And since you say you have," he paused as if searching for the phrase, "_time to spare_, you shall serve it immediately." With a flick of his fingers he sent her books whizzing back into the corners of the library from whence they came.

Hermione's mouth gaped unattractively. Yet still no sound emerged. Snape's ire increased exponentially.

"You are to say, 'yes, sir'," he bit out.

Her eyes narrowed.

"Now, Granger. Or I shall see to it that you will never have _time to spare_ for the rest of this academic year."

Her chin jutted out rebelliously, but she muttered, "Yes, sir."

It was the first time he'd heard her voice solely directed towards him in nearly three weeks. His chest felt lighter, and unbeknownst to him, it was because something buried deep within recognized that his world had realigned, sliding back onto its axis with a sigh of gentle relief and a feeling of warm, welcoming rightness.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: So... I lied. It'll be four parts, guys. Sorry! **

**Disclaimer: Not mine. **

* * *

**_Nota bene:_ Later in this chapter is a reference to Hermione "challenging" the idea of a detention. My thinking was, since Hermione's in her "8th year", she's less of a student and more of an academic enthusiast at this point. It would be odd of her teachers to treat her as just another kid, so it makes sense they'd allow her some privileges when it came to disciplinary action. **

* * *

Hermione was contemplating homicide, but her Muggle roots demanded she not think in terms of _Avada Kedavra_. Instead, the reverberation of each of Snape's footsteps inspired new depths of malevolence—his right foot thunked down and her mind whispered _blunt force trauma_; the left inspired a chorus of _get him with a knife_. Part of her was shocked by the violent nature of her thoughts; the other part kept replaying his dressing down in her head, the repeated viewings coating it with ever more bile.

"Keep up," he grunted, steering her with his presence through the halls. It was evident that the distance between them had not changed a whit; he was only saying it to be spiteful.

"Mmm," she hummed absently in reply, and noticed a slight falter in his steps.

"Useless sound," he said, after a beat.

The silence gaped between the echoes of his shoes, but Hermione did not feel even slightly tempted to say anything in reply.

"Do you know why you are serving this detention?"

Hermione's face darkened, but she said nothing. He'd share whether she cared or not.

"Well?" He asked.

Hermione let the silence speak for her.

"Answer, Miss Granger, else I'll feel like Orpheus leading Eurydice. How can I trust you to be behind me if you do not speak?"

"Why?" She finally tossed out.

"Ah, she has a voice," he said dryly. She wanted to hit him. "If you must know, it is because you did not finish my assigned work in the library, with the rest of your assignments."

Her mouth nearly fell open. A whirl of thoughts began to form in her mind and Hermione knew, immediately, that there were undercurrents here she wasn't cognizant of just yet. _Snape knows this detention is grossly unfair. He _knows _I could contest it with the other Heads of House, and likely win the motion_. _What's he playing at? _She nibbled on a fingernail, running the details of the situation through her brain. His decision to assign her detention was grossly uncharacteristic, almost bordering on sheer idiocy. What card did he think he had—

_Oh._

Hermione's lips curled into a snarl. _You bastard. You slimy, conniving git. How _dare _you entrap me with my own silence? Silence isn't meekness, you dolt. I am not someone you can step on like you do to so many others. Do you think because I don't talk, it means I can't speak up for myself?_

Yet for all her blind, seething anger, Hermione knew that her next move was more important than any of her premeditated actions. If she spoke—reluctantly, of course, but noise nonetheless—he'd win. If she followed him limply, he would still win.

_Well then, Professor. I'll call your stupid bluff. _A steely glint came to her eye.

She stopped walking, the sound of her shoes cutting off with one last ringing echo. Snape caught on immediately, and she cursed him for his reflexes—there was no time to rethink the motion or falter in its execution. Not uttering a word, she reached into the messenger bag at her side that bulged with her textbooks, rustling through the debris and weighing the possibilities in her searching hand. She lit upon the scroll she was looking for, and wordlessly held it out to him, her face challenging.

Snape's hand sliced through the air and nearly wrenched the scroll from her palm.

"What is this?" He said, his voice gruff.

One of her eyebrows rose as if to say, _Read it, idiot._

"What _is_ it, Granger? _Answer me!_" It came out as a strangled roar.

She smirked, and his face became stenciled in anger.

"You will tell me what this is right now, or Salazar help me, I will make your life at this school more intolerable than you can possibly imagine. _Now_, Miss Granger."

"Read," she said blithely, and though her insides quaked at the acid in his voice, her body was posed nonchalantly. "What's contained therein will explain everything."

He grit his teeth at her in a grimace before tearing the scroll open. She strove not to flinch at the sight.

His eyes skimmed the page hurriedly, first through the contents before finally settling on the title, written in bold strokes: **The Unlucky Consequences of Overmuch Felix Felicis Consumption**, by Hermione Granger. His face paled.

"Is this a joke?" He hissed. "Did you magic up a scroll while you walked so silently behind me?"

She snorted, but said nothing.

"You find this funny, Miss Granger? How strange; you seem to be the only one laughing." In a stride, he was eye to eye with her. Or, rather, she was eye to chest with him, because his height required her to crane her head up to see his livid expression. "When did you write this?"

"The night after it was assigned," she said, then paused momentarily before adding, "sir."

His eyes narrowed at her, then an evil grin spread across his face. She looked down at the protracted sound of a long rip. The two halves of her paper drifted from his hands to the floor.

Her mouth was contorted in an open silence of shock. Her face looked paralyzed. "You—"

"I find this to be more in keeping with my humor," he said, and she swore she felt her heartstrings snap.

She hissed a breath in and out, the air whistling against her teeth, and she was suddenly acutely aware of the feel of her glasses across the bridge of her nose, the sound of his steady breathing, and the sight of her parchment stark yellow against the grey stone floor. Somewhere, the sound of a feral half-shriek, half-growl penetrated the scene, and it was only after a moment that she realized it came from her.

"You hateful, spiteful little bully!" She spat. She swooped down to pick her paper up off the floor, and then straightened with what felt like a jolt of crackling energy. "This is how you'd dare treat me? Me, who fought on the same side as you, with the same courage as you, with the same convictions? I have done _nothing_ to you! I knocked over your cauldron! It was an _accident_!" Her eyes were accusing. "I have done nothing—absolutely nothing—to earn your bile or your insults." Her expression turned cold. "I will pay for your ingredients. I will re-do this assignment. But I will not, not ever, answer another question or ask any of my own in your class. The day I pass my NEWTs cannot come quickly enough." A sneer twisted her thin lips into a stark slash of reddish-pink. "If I see you outside of this school at any time after graduation," she said, "it will be too soon."

She cut herself off, her breath nearly coming out in gasps. Her blood was singing hot red; she could feel it thrum, a tempo pounding in her ears, stretching out to the very tips of her fingers. Anger felt good, and fresh, and pure, and she wanted to grasp the feeling and pull it into her forever. Even Snape's stricken expression did nothing to diminish the joyful pink in her cheeks.

He recovered, as always, too quickly. His mind told him to hold his tongue, but his heart demanded retribution.

"You are a selfish, ignorant little girl," he hissed, his eyes a snapping, venomous black. "Your disrespect has been foolishly tolerated within this school for too long; you are stupid if you think I will allow it to continue. You will follow me down to the dungeons immediately, and you will pray that I forget even half the uninspired insults you have thrown at me today. Do I make myself clear?"

"What's clear," she replied coldly, "is that you cannot differentiate between a temper tantrum and pure, righteous indignation. I am not a little girl. Do not condescend to me as if I were, _sir_. I most certainly will not follow you to the dungeons. I will go instead to McGonagall's office and request to be removed from your class. It is obvious you have something against me—shame, after what we've both been through—and I will not tolerate your vendetta. I will seek another tutor in Potions; my grades should prove my willingness." She shot him another venomous glare. "Something _you_ never appreciated."

The enormity of her words had finally penetrated his mind. _She'll leave my class. She'll never see me again. After graduation, gone. Never to hear her voice._ _Is this a price worthy of a spilt cauldron? _All the color had finally seeped out of Snape's face. His eyes were dull now, and bleak, as if looking into a distant future he did not care to see. He looked lost, and if Hermione were not so riled by fury, she thought maybe a part of her might've taken pity on him.

"Enough, Miss Granger." His voice seemed worn-out. His hand reached out to her, and then faltered. Then a determined look stole across his face, and he completed the gesture, hooking her elbow within the cup of his hand—a gentle touch at odds with the fury she'd seen only moments before. "Let us find another place to finish this; Hogwarts is large, but I seem to have forgotten how quickly news and gossip can spread." He fixed her with those bleak black tunnels of eyes, and suddenly she felt very weary. "Will you come?"

Hermione's shoulders fell. Did she owe him this? A large part of her wanted to cut and run, leave him with her angry brand and let it burn him like his words had done to her. But the part of her that was still stripped by the war cried out to her; told her to let him say his part, before she severed the ties any further. She nodded, and gently pulled her arm away. His posture slumped infinitesimally.

Slowly they made their way down, their unsynchronized steps a jarring note in the otherwise eerie silence of the castle. Even straining her ears, Hermione could not hear Snape's breath. The entirety of the situation was disconcerting.

When they got to his office door, the urge to flee pushed against her mind even stronger than before. She was furious with him, likely always would be, and it was foolish to think a sit down chat would change anything between them. They'd cut each other deeply, and they both knew it; it was evident in the tenseness of his posture and the grimace on her lips. She thought, fleetingly, that being silent perhaps had its merits, after all.

"Are you going to come in?" He asked quietly, the lines of his face taut and enigmatic.

She nodded, and slowly padded into the office.

The atmosphere was changed. There were no creepy jars, no stately desks or wicked looking instruments. It was simply a rather neutral colored room, with a plush carpet and two enormous leather chairs. A table rested between them, with three books and an old teacup stacked on top of it. It looked lived-in, and cozy. It looked human. She was immediately on edge.

"This a conversation between equals, to be had on neutral ground," he said, and she thought he looked very tired.

"Equals?" She ventured, unsure if this was a ploy.

He was not so tired as to not fix her with a glare. "Yes," he said through gritted teeth. He walked away from her, to pause in front of a chair. Slowly, almost creakily, he lowered himself into it. One of his eyebrows rose lazily, as if to say, _Well?_

She followed his unspoken command and sat herself primly atop the leather cushion. She want to sink into it blissfully, with a moan, but was determined to act mature and so settled for an extended period of nestling herself into the upholstery.

"Are you quite done?" He asked.

"Yes. Fine." Her eyes shifted to him. "Why am I here?"

"In lieu of detention, I think it better for us to… discuss."

"What, the yelling match in the hall wasn't enough for you?" She snorted. "I figured we've both made ourselves clear. I'll no longer be your student, you'll no longer be my teacher, I'll reimburse you, and we can move on. You, with your potion, and me, with my coursework."

"The arrangement is unacceptable." His jaw tightened. "You cannot leave."

"Yes I very well can," she retorted. "And I will. You're horrid to me, and for no reason. Perhaps other students have put up with—and are willing to continue putting up with—much worse, but considering what we've both gone through together…" She shook her head resignedly. "It can't work. We're comrades in arms, Professor, but you treat me like the dirt under your boot."

"It's no worse than what you've been doing to yourself, girl. Can you chastise me for treating you the same way you seem to want to be treated?" He fixed her with a blank stare. "I've done no more than what you seem to think you deserve."

Her eyes narrowed. "You've no _right_!"

"Then act like it," he hissed. "The silent treatment is childish. Act like the mature, intelligent woman I know you are capable of being, and perhaps then I might find no reason to act the way I do."

"Childish?" She repeated. "No more so than your ridiculous detention bluff. Honestly, for not doing your homework with everyone else's?"

"I admit perhaps I was… fed up with your behavior."

She ignored the unspoken apology. "I'm done with you taking things out on me. I don't deserve it." She fiddled with the hem of her skirt distractedly. "And even though I didn't mean all the things I was yelling…" The corners of her lips turned down with sadness. "The emotions were still there, and true, and justified. I'm sorry, sir; it's just not going to work." She stood up shakily, thrown off-kilter by the surreality of it all. But he had allowed her to treat him and talk to him like an equal here, and she had done just that—every word she had said in this room, she meant in a respectful, albeit uncompromising way. "I appreciate the gesture, Professor," she said, indicating the seat and the room at large. "It wasn't more than I deserved, but it was more than I expected you to give." She straightened her school tie and skirt, nodded at him, and turned to leave.

Each step to the door was an eternity. She felt like she was walking through treacle.

"You don't have to redo the assignment," he said gruffly. If his voice had a desperate edge to it, he pretended not to hear it. "It was… _callous_ of me."

She turned to face him. "We've said what we've had to say, sir. Let's leave it here and let it be."

To her surprise, he dropped his head to cradle it in his hands. "I cannot leave it alone," he whispered _sotto voce_.

"I'm sorry?" She ventured, unsure of what he had said.

From the shelter of his hands, he said, "Hermione—no, Miss Granger, I think—"

"Professor?"

He jerked his head up and fixed her with a deep, fathomless look. And then, to her chagrin, he started to laugh. "I'm the world's biggest fool," he choked out through gruff chuckles. "Go now, Miss Granger. Better that you not see me lose my faculties; what little amount of respect you might still hold for me will surely be gone, by then."

"Sir?"

"Go, go. I've no one to blame but myself… Gods, what a mockery." His voice had lowered to a husky timber that scared and worried her.

"Are you sure you're alright?" She asked.

"_Now_ the girl decides to stop following my directives," he murmured to himself, but loud enough for her to hear.

She rolled her eyes. "If I'd known I was following an insane man down to the dungeons…" She walked over to him slowly, bending slightly to look him in the eye while he sat in his chair. "Are you in control of yourself, now?"

The corners of his mouth quirked up, and Hermione nearly choked on her own breath at the sight. "It does you credit, Miss Granger, that even when you hate a man you come back to make sure he's sane." His eyes turned a limpid black. "You're much too good."

"I don't understand you at all," she said wearily. "But you seem lucid enough. Goodbye then, Professor."

She turned around again, but stood stone still at the feeling of fingers brushing over the crest of her knuckles. "What—"

The feeling was gone by the time she turned to face him.

"Did you—"

He looked at her blankly.

It was all too much. Words died in her throat and she swallowed them thickly, unable to speak. The best she could manage was a nod.

This time, the walk to the door was easier, and the sound of his voice was eerily absent. She turned the knob and stepped through, her breath speeding up, as if half expecting that something—anything—would chase her. Nothing came.

The door shut behind her with a metallic snick, and she was in the hall once again, a girl with big glasses and a pale, drawn face. Her head pounded and her mouth felt dry and gluey, and there was an odd pressure building up behind her eyes, almost like she wanted to weep but simply didn't have the strength to follow through. _I should go to McGonagall and request to leave the class._

The thought gave her pause, but she started walking, thinking she could make her way to the teacher's office before dinner. At the corner of the hallway, she stopped momentarily, and brought her hands up to rub at her eyes. She came away with moisture glistening on the pads of her finger.

_Odd, that. When did I start crying?_

* * *

She had followed through, the stubborn, foolish woman. He had hardly believed the threat when she delivered it, but the evidence of it stared him in the face every Thursday and Friday. Her seat was empty. The chit had actually meant it.

He still remembered how McGonagall had snapped at him when she got the request.

"_Why is it that Miss Granger is asking to be transferred out of your class, Severus?"_ _she hissed. "She'd been getting along brilliantly in the lectures. Answered every question, performed every spell correctly. Yet she comes in looking like she'd gone through the war all over again—she'd made such _progress_!"_

"_I don't know why, Minerva, or I'd have done something about it." The grimace on both their faces was a testament to his bald-faced lie. "Didn't you ask her?"_

"_I did, believe you me," she said. "The girl wouldn't say a word. Simply that the environment was no longer conducive to her education. Care to explain?"_

"_Absolutely not. I've not the slightest idea where she got that twaddle, and if she had had the courage to say it to me, perhaps this all might've been avoided…"_

"_She said you already knew." Minerva's face was weary. "I can deny her nothing, Severus, you know this. Not after all that—" _

_His face darkened, and with a curt nod, he'd fled; her office door slammed shut behind him, its echo haunting him down the staircase._

And now he never saw her. He had _looked_—Merlin, how he had _searched_—but he never ran into her, not once. Not even the library. When he looked for her in the Great Hall, her back was always to him. No one ever whispered about her in class, so there was no new knowledge to be had.

By the end of the second week of her absence, any delusions he might have had about her importance to him was gone, stripped away by her quitting of him cold turkey. He could no longer deny that some part of him, some very essential piece of his core, was inexorably tied up with one Hermione Granger, the Gryffindor lioness who'd sooner rip his guts out than speak to him. He raged in his classroom every night, throwing books and expelling spontaneous magic wandlessly, setting fires to essays and paperwork purely by accident. It was driving him mad, the not being able to see her. _She_ was driving him mad.

The woman even sent him his money, much to his chagrin. He thought that, too, had been a bluff, meant to highlight his pettiness and cruelty. Now he realized that she didn't even have it in her mind to think that way; that she meant what she said. That made him feel, more than ever, like an idiotic cad.

He didn't use the money. He couldn't. It was heavy in his hand, and the gold and silver metals felt slimy to the touch, as if they knew they were ill begotten, and planned to remind their owner of it every chance they got.

* * *

Hermione had coped with her decision admirably, but the first week was awful. For some reason, her botched student-teacher relationship with Snape reeked of failure to her, and she was horribly saddened by the loss of him as a teacher figure. She had always loved education, and by extension, anyone associated with it, so although Snape was horrid and insensitive and condescending, he had been a part of her life for near on eight years, and the loss of him stung keenly.

The second week went easier. She didn't have to fake being silent anymore, and she didn't feel constantly off-balanced or wary. Thoughts of revenge, which had darkened her thoughts for weeks prior, had petered out and disappeared, no longer pressing against her mind or her mouth. She was no longer tempted to scream at the slightest provocation. She'd been sleeping more and working less, and on the whole, she felt like she had swallowed the sun and absorbed it under her skin; her smile was pure and undiluted with deception.

Months passed with her not seeing Snape at all. She felt it was better that way—a clean break, as it were—and she was happy for the chance to relax. McGonagall had gone out of her way to provide her with a supportive, intelligent tutor who wrote to her on reams of parchment each Saturday. Hermione often looked forward to these forwarded notes and lessons, and often snuck off to the Room of Requirement, which was happy to summon a mock-Potions classroom for her. McGonagall was happy to let Hogwarts foot the bill for any ingredients, which wrapped up the topic of Hermione's Potions lessons nicely, and overall, Hermione knew she would pass the NEWTs. It was enough.

Months blended into a nebulous blob of spent time, and before she knew it, it was a week to graduation.

And through it all, she was happy. Harry and Ron had been extra attentive since that day with her parents' letter, and she was shocked to find that they weren't playing at it—at no point did they ever complain or change their behavior. Hermione guessed that maybe they'd finally grown up, and seen her friendship for what it was—pure and whole and unwavering, and worthy of reciprocity. She was proud of them, and it showed in her smile every day.

She had worked her way up to speaking at length on one subject or another everyday, and she'd begun to actually take an interest in the world at large. She was horrified at the amount of knowledge she still had to catch up on; her time wallowing was hardly spent perusing the latest periodicals.

The final week rambled onwards, and on the day before the graduation ceremony, Hermione sat down at a table in the library to take stock of her life. If she found something somewhat odd about synthesizing her entire history down to a few bullet points on a piece of parchment, it certainly didn't show.

She dipped her quill, and began.

She'd defeated a Dark wizard. She'd kept herself alive, and her two best friends alive, and though she was still very much saddened by the loss of her fellow Light soldiers, she no longer felt their presence like chains shackling her to the shadows. She'd taken her NEWTs and come out feeling relatively confident about her grades. She'd started looking into jobs and apprenticeships at St. Mungo's, and so far her search had been fruitful enough to satisfy her ambitions.

Then why did she feel like a large piece of the final puzzle was missing?

She looked down at the parchment, filled with her scribbles, her actions penned in thick black ink, and felt accomplished. Yet something nibbled at the corner of her mind, its teeth worrying at her thoughts yet not finding enough purchase to make her understand.

And there on her parchment, underneath it all, was a single word. Its final letter was dribbling with ink as her quill rested over the strokes: _Snape_.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: Apologies for dropping the ball on this one. I may have actually punted it halfway across the field, dropped it in some mud, rolled it under some bushes, forgotten about it, and came back for it a few months later. But hey, we can play ball again, can't we? That being said, this is unbeta-ed. I also haven't been indulging in SSHG fic as often as I used to, so if character tones are off, I only have rusty writing skills to blame. The Latin is right, though. I'm an ex-Latin fanatic; I can still handle my imperatives.**

**Disclaimer: A long time in the making, but obviously, the characters aren't mine.**

* * *

He wrote to her every day, but the postage cost him nothing because the letters went unsent. Exactly sixty-eight days had passed since graduation; he knew, because there were balls of crumpled parchment lurking under his desk, keeping score.

She had left with nary a look over her shoulder. She didn't say goodbye—not to him, not to anyone. If he had to hazard a guess, it was likely her thinking that the people she deemed worth seeing would meet her outside of school one day, because she would make it so. Thus, to her, graduation was not checkmate but rather a checkpoint.

He saw each day through a lens of apathy, and it colored everything brown, like the color of Hermione's hair. He sat at the Head Table during meals, saw his colleagues get letters every week from one student or another, filled with colorful, interesting stories and musings, and he felt like a piece of decoration, the black bat figurine at a table that had been immortalized for All Hallows' Eve, even though it was already Christmas and no one had bothered to throw the decorations out. The thought made his hands clammy.

Hermione wrote every few weeks. He knew which owl was hers; kept his ears perked up especially when he saw it winging down to McGonagall or Flitwick. Every time he saw the bird, a small part of him—the part buried somewhere under his sternum, hidden away from the world—leaped and soared to meet the owl's claws. But the bird was never interested in bridging the connection; it would perch on the back of McGonagall's chair and click its beak disinterestedly, unaware that it held a man's heart in its talons.

He gave up hoping the bird would ever come within five inches of him.

And that thought made his clammy, cold hands shake.

* * *

Hermione's apprenticeship at St. Mungo's didn't pay extravagantly well, but it gave her enough money to get by. She had begun working with McGonagall and Flitwick, through letters, on charms and spell development, so that she might impress her superiors at the hospital and earn herself a pay increase for actively adding to the medical field, instead of just learning about it. But what she truly wanted was to expand her inquiry into Potions. Her tutor from Hogwarts, however, was not a pioneer, just an instructor; it was unlikely that he had an inventive bone in his body. She needed to talk to Snape.

But she didn't know how to begin.

She spent each day mulling over the end of their relationship, and it always left her with a pounding headache. Memories of his class took on a dream-like quality, their constant repetitions in her mind making them hazy and blurred, as if the potion fumes themselves were trying to block her view of the past.

She wanted to talk to him.

She drafted a letter every week, but all of them left a bitter taste in her mouth. It tasted like burnt wood, charred and dry, and it was only when she came home after a particularly long week and sat down to cry that she realized what she was tasting was the tang of a burned bridge.

Time tumbled. Three months passed, and Hermione found herself more and more dissatisfied with her life. St. Mungo's drained her daily, her outside developments were at an absolute stand still, and she hadn't contacted a friend or a teacher in at least two weeks.

Her thoughts felt dull and stagnant, and her aspirations had congealed on the sides of her brain, crusted over with drudgery and monotony. She felt lonely, and gray, and unkempt. Days blurred again, like they had after the war, and all of a sudden, they didn't have names. It was either yesterday, today, or tomorrow, and that was about as far as she could stretch when it came to thinking about her life.

So she withdrew from it entirely, and in her mind's eye she saw herself in the same position she was in a year ago, hunched over a Charms essay with a quill in her trembling hand, tears blurring the ink into indistinct, grayish black smudges.

Her glasses were cloudy again.

* * *

Severus Snape was slightly disquieted. It wasn't a great worry, no; nothing that made him nauseous or light-headed, certainly. That was unrelated. It was just… troublesome.

Because it had been three months.

And he hadn't seen her since graduation.

And the letters had stopped coming.

* * *

Minerva McGonagall was a busy woman, undeniably so. But even juggling two hundred different things, her sharp eyes never missed the 201st item that hovered just out of her reach.

She knew Hermione Granger had made herself invisible and untouchable. And she knew that Severus Snape had stopped eating breakfast and had requested a Nausea Repressor from Madame Pomfrey.

Logic dictated correlation did not imply causation, but then again, Gryffindors knew better than to listen solely to logic.

* * *

Severus' hands had begun the letter before he even realized it. He only caught up to the traitorous things when they had penned his signature at the bottom of the parchment. It read:

_Miss Granger:_

_ Careful with the accompanying vial; it was acceptable to spill its contents when it was in its brewing stage in the classroom's cauldron, but to do so when it's a final product would be most disheartening. _

_ And __if you're going to shut your mouth, you might as well open your eyes._

_ Severus Snape_

His hands weren't the only body parts rebelling against his mind. His legs, too, took him places without consulting him, forcing him all the way to the Owlery. His hands hadn't stopped their insubordination, either—they were packaging the potion vial with considerable delicacy and caution, tying it lovingly in durable paper and twine. The letter went into an owl's mouth, and his traitorous arm, holding the owl upright, gently propelled the bird through the open window.

His eyes, turncoats that they were, watched the owl speed away, and his hands, once clammy and cold with the slick of desperation and depression, clasped themselves behind his back determinedly and fiercely. Not for the entire journey back down to the dungeons did they tremble or shake—not once.

* * *

The letter arrived later that same day. The handwriting of the address made her heart flip upside down.

She had been so sure that she'd never hear from him again; she had felt, in the very depths of her mind, the severing of their relationship and assumed the remaining connection too untenable to sustain. And if she, the Gryffindor, had not the bravery to reach out, then she assumed there would be no hope of him, a Slytherin, taking the leap instead. But she had misjudged him, and for that, she was fervently glad.

Almost unaware that she was doing it, she brushed the pad of her thumb over his signature, the oils of her hand slightly smudging the final 'e'. Then, caressingly, she folded the letter back, using the already made creases as her guide, so that if anyone were to look, it would seem as if she hadn't touched the letter at all. Only the black streak on her thumb and the warmth in her heart could tell anyone otherwise.

Her hands, of their own accord, moved to cradle the package between her palms. It felt light and unsubstantial, though the packaging itself was bulky and roughly done. The twine's lopsided knot scratched under her fingers, but in an endearing way—prickly, but heartfelt, rather like the man whom she suspected had tied it himself. It nearly did her in to unravel it, but her curiosity was too great.

In the center of the brown packaging, like the hidden heart of a flower, rested a vial so delicate it seemed ready to shatter at the slightest breath. Gingerly, tenderly, Hermione picked it up by the ridge of its corked mouth, holding it up to the light.

It looked like molten rose gold. Even while the scientist in her demanded that she swirl the liquid inside to assess its viscosity, the little girl in her marveled at the sheer brilliance of its shine, the glimmering flecks of ruby red that peeked out playfully through the copper sheen of the potion.

Hermione brought her hands together, as if in prayer, over the thin length of the vial. Her eyes were shut, her mouth was pursed, her air one of silent meditation. And then her mouth broke into a smile so wide it looked almost awkward on such a thin, weary face.

Because Hermione had just formulated another plan, and this time, it wasn't about revenge.

She should have realized, however, that it wouldn't be easy. The conversation she needed to have with Severus—_Snape? Professor? Mister? No, Severus._—had to be face to face, or she wouldn't be able to follow through. Gryffindorish confrontations and confessions were her specialty; she'd become resigned to that long ago.

But she couldn't find him. It was the winter holiday break, and he was nowhere to be seen. _Surely he must leave the castle just _once _before Christmas?_ She checked bookstores, both seedy and reputable. She checked pubs, and cafés, and places known for potion ingredients, both cheap and expensive. Not one sight of him. Grimly, she set off for home, knowing what had to be done.

At her desk, out came a quill and some parchment—

_Dear Minerva:_

_ I'm sorry I've been out of touch for so long; I was wondering…_

* * *

And so she found herself, three days later, trudging up the snowy steps to Hogwarts. The castle, always perfect and pristine, looked even more magical—she snorted—in the swirling drifts of snowflakes.

Minerva McGonagall was waiting for her outside the heavy doors, wrapped up in fleece. The older woman bundled her inside and towards the Great Hall with nary a word, her fussing and clucking and warm eyes the remedy for Hermione's slight onset of panic.

"Molly, is that you?" Hermione teased through chattering teeth.

Minerva's sharp upsweep of an eyebrow sent Hermione into nearly hysterical giggles.

"I'm rather keyed up at the moment, forgive me," Hermione gasped out between laughs.

"That wasn't immediately evident to me," Minerva said dryly, though a small smile belied any sarcastic sting. "And while it is lovely to see you, Hermione, I question the motivation behind visiting on such a stormy day."

"The trip up was nothing," Hermione lied, warmth leeching away her shivers.

McGonagall tilted her head and raised her eyes to the ceiling, which was an ominous-looking gray. Her expression clearly said, _Nice try_.

"I wasn't all that bad," Hermione insisted. Her palms had begun to sweat. "I missed the castle, you see, and it's always so lovely in the snow—"

"You always were an appallingly bad liar," a voice from behind them drawled.

The air went out of Hermione's lungs as she spun around to face him. There, in all his black, sweeping glory, stood a very haughty-looking Professor Snape.

"I see you've yet to lose the habit of slackening your jaw when surprised. How delightful." And if there was a red tinge to his cheeks, Hermione was too nonplussed to answer. Minerva, in the meantime, had made her way silently out of the hall, pulling the door shut behind her.

"And _you_ haven't lost the habit of starting conversations with shockingly rude rejoinders," Hermione snapped.

The Potion professor's face looked momentarily panicked, but then smoothed into his norm of apathetic discontent. "Haven't you heard the adage about teaching an old spy new tricks?"

Hermione gave a warm smile and extended her hand. "Professor. Quips aside, it's good to see you."

"Careful, Hermione," he said, and cursed how easily the name slipped from his mouth. "You're reneging on those barbs you sallied so perfectly last school year."

Hermione's face went red. "I… I… I didn't mean those—"

"I tell her she's appalling at it, and yet she insists on continuing." A self-deprecating smile quirked his lips, blurring the harsh angles of his face. "Do stop lying, Miss Granger. It's embarrassing how bad you are at it."

"Thank you."

"Foolish girl, don't thank me for my—"

Hermione's expression was warm, open, and very serious. "For the potion. Apericulos, if I'm not mistaken. Very distinctive."

Snape's face went ashen. It was evident he hadn't expected any form of gratitude to come in person. "Please, don't trouble yourself to—"

"I'm not. I'm giving thanks where thanks are due, you stubborn man. Now take it with a grimace and stop complaining."

He made an exaggerated show of gritting his teeth, and through them he pushed out a hasty, "You're welcome."

"That hurt, didn't it?" Her eyes belied the airiness of the statement, brought him back to that time in the hallway, with a paper at their feet and a girl with her heart on her sleeve.

Snape's eyes refocused sharply on her face. "It did," he said quietly.

Hermione let out a small sigh, but no words came.

"But it doesn't anymore," he added. He took one tentative step, then two, then three, until they were a mere two feet apart. To him, the distance between them felt hair-thin. "Will you come?"

The taste of déjà-vu burst sweetly onto her tongue. "Of course," she said, and followed him from the hall.

* * *

This trek down to the dungeons was tension-filled, but lacked the blade-like sharpness of its predecessor. This time, Hermione was jittery for another reason entirely, and it had nothing to do with the adrenaline that came from anger.

Much like it had been before, the door came upon them too quickly, and the room he led her into was still warm and surprisingly neutral.

"You always look so surprised to see this place devoid of manacles," he said dryly. "Part of me wonders if I played my part too well."

Hermione gave a small smile. "I'm a creature of habit. The know-it-all part of me still expects a verbal lashing."

Snape winced. "I see."

She was quick to backtrack. "It was a joke, sir, really." _Not that the 'sir' moniker helps my case any_.

"Sit," he said, he voice tightly controlled.

This time, she welcomed the feel of the soft armchair with a small huff of happiness. "You have the comfiest armchairs."

Snape's expression told her what he thought of _that_ inanity.

"Right," she muttered. "You asked me down. There's a reason for that, right?"

Snape took a seat himself, looking uncomfortable. "I confess to being confused by my own actions."

Hermione's eyebrows rose of their own accord.

"Yes, well," he huffed. "If you'd be so kind as to say something?"

"Why?"

"Why what—"

"Why the potion?" She asked. "Your letter indicated that this was the potion inside the cauldron I knocked down last year, which means… Oh." Her eyes widened. She hadn't thought about the implications of— "_Oh!_ You were making this for me? Last year?"

Snape's shoulders stiffened. "I—"

She barreled over him, refusing the let the thought go until she'd finished it. "You _were!_ You saw how miserable I was, and you were trying to help me!" A huge smile bloomed over her face. "You cared."

Snape's harsh swallow made Hermione want to do something silly, like stand up and twirl in place.

"You weren't mad at me, truly, were you," she said. "You were upset that your work was destroyed, yes, but I've seen that type of anger. What happened between us wasn't that. You were," she searched for the word, "embarrassed, probably. Because you were doing something kind for me, and I'd stumbled upon it, in the most literal way. Why _did_ you brew it out in the open?"

Snape's voice was whip-sharp. "Think, Miss Granger. Use the brain I know you have."

She had nothing to go on but the title—Apericulos wasn't a well-known brew. It had Latin roots, of course; most things in the magical world did. Apericulos, aperi… _what's the word for it, I know it, I must have seen it somewhere_… Oculos. She gave a smirk.

"Apericulos, a bastardization of aperi oculos. Literally meaning 'open eyes,' from the Latin. So you," she had to furrow her brow in thought for a moment, then reached out a tentative guess, "had to brew it in plain sight?"

Snape huffed out a breath. "Will there ever be a trivial detail that you _don't_ know?"

Hermione's smile was luminous. "Doubtful."

Snape's answering quirk of the lips made something cold and hard in her chest unfurl.

"So all of last year was," she started, and then her face blanched. "_Merlin_," she breathed, and shut her eyes.

"Miss Granger?" Snape asked.

"All that anger. All that fury, for _nothing_." Her eyes were open again, their gleam dulled and muted. "I've been such an idiot."

"Well, I wouldn't put it exactly like that—"

"Oh, I _hated_ you," she said, her voice shaky. "I loathed you, thought that your personal vendetta was the cruelest thing. And there you were, the only person who actually gave a damn." A bitter laugh. "Yes, well done, Miss Know-It-All. Everything's lovely until you start _assuming things_."

"Hermione, look at me."

Her head, which had become progressively bowed during her soliloquy, raised itself slowly.

"I was cruel," he said. Then, as if steeling himself, he took a deep breath. "I said things I should have never said, and it was unfair of me." The grimace on his face spoke of the difficulty he was having with his thoughts. "It pains me to see you punish yourself for something that is clearly my fault. And I, so many years your senior…" It was his turn to give a sharp chuckle. "Making mistakes that belong solely to teenage boys."

"Teenage boys?" Hermione asked, her breath catching in her throat.

"Misdirecting anger towards the object of one's affection is a common trait among the pubescent, wouldn't you say?" His raised eyebrow painted a stark contrast with the clenching of his jaw, as if only his teeth acknowledged the depth of his confession. "I was angry at you, Hermione, because I expected something from you that you were too young to give."

She blushed scarlet.

"No!" He barked out, then gentled his voice. "No, not that." He let out a gusty breath through his nose. "I wanted stability."

Hermione's brow furrowed. "I don't follow."

"I barely understand it myself," he replied, his tone wry. Then, jerkily, he took himself out of his chair and strode over to the mantelpiece. He stroked three long fingers over its surface, his back turned to her. "After the war, this world was torn to shreds—people were happy, people were grieving, people were mad. I wasn't part of the first group," he said, his voice sounding thread-thin. "But neither was I wholly part of the others. I was isolated, yes, a fallen man with no hope of redemption." He gave a harsh chuckle. "There is not much else to do but think and regret when you are recovering in a hospital bed alone."

"It sounds awful," she said sincerely.

"It was no more than I deserved," he replied.

"Hardly."

"It is kind of you to say."

"No, it's merely true," she said, her voice a sharp blade of warm steel.

"Always the kindhearted lioness," he breathed, almost to himself. Then, as if remembering where he was: "In brief—when I came back, I looked for anything, _anyone_, who was familiar. It… helped." The last part was spit out like bitter bile. "And you, you were supposed to be yourself. You were supposed to be strong, curious, always bright." The words rung hollow, but lacked the tang of condemnation. "I did not consider that you, too, might be as affected as everyone else. I had placed you on an academic pedestal, and when you toppled off because," and he grinned, "_how shocking_, the Know-It-All is human, I was infuriated."

He turned to face her, leaning back to support himself on the mantelpiece. "And for that, I must…" His characteristic grimace reappeared. "Apologize."

Hermione moved from her chair, walking to him cautiously, one rabbit step at a time. "My turn, Professor."

A tick of pain flashed through his eyes. "Severus."

Her half-quirked lips were a study in hope. "Severus, then. My turn to apologize." She was three feet from him, enough to let him breathe. "I'm sorry, you see. For what I said. And for what I did, I think." She took a second, cocking her head to the side as if she were thinking it over. "Yes, definitely sorry. All the brilliant lessons I missed out on—" She shook her head sadly. "Wasted. Damn." She peeked up through the fringe of her hair at him, assessing his face. He looked bored, and slightly disgruntled. _Well_. "But that's not the important bit, is it?" And she took another step towards him, almost on tiptoe, the carpet beneath her seeming ready to crack like thin ice. "The important bit is that we neither of us deserved what we did to each other." She reached out a hand carefully, tentatively, letting it hover over his right shoulder before finally making contact. "So I'm sorry, Severus. I'd like it very much if we could try again."

That roused him. "Try what again?" He asked, almost gruffly. "You would like us to repeat the student teacher dynamic?"

It was Hermione's turn to be gruff. "No, you impossible man. The 'let's dance around each other but recognize deep down that we're actually quite compatible as friends and—'"

Severus's eyes narrowed. "Friends?" He pulled the word from his mouth as if he were pulling a sword from a mortal wound. "That is all?"

Hermione took a step back, and felt the loss of his body heat keenly. He looked at her wearily, the lines on his face blurring into a picture of age and dejection. "I see," he said.

"No, you don't," she replied. And her left hand, which had migrated into her coat's pocket during the discussion, held his potion up, victorious. "But then again, neither did I." And with one last look at the beauty of the brew, she popped the cork off and swallowed it down. It tasted like chilled rose petals.

"Oh, that's wonderful," she breathed, shutting her eyes.

"The brewing process was satisfactory," he said dryly. "But I say that only because my cauldron was not knocked over halfway through the proceedings."

At that, she opened her eyes, and trained them on him.

The Apericulos was not a hallucinatory potion; in fact, most brewers had given up making it after the first batch, because the effects seemed so anticlimactic as to render the effort meaningless. But having downed the potion, Hermione's—not _sight_, but perspective—was changed.

Nothing about Snape looked different; he did not turn blond, his nose did not shrink, the black of his eyes did not leech out and turn blue. His teeth stayed crooked, his hair stayed lank. But the things she felt—sensed—_from him_ were so new and powerful as to almost knock her flat. There was warmth _radiating_ from him; it was an earthy glow, a sense of blankets and warm bread. It reminded her of autumn days that were best spent curled up, napping. It reached for her, these warm tendrils; it wrapped her up cautiously, preciously, as if it recognized both her strength and fragility, wanting to nurture the former while understanding the latter. And at its source stood the Potions Master, leaning up against the mantel and looking at her as if he couldn't quite fathom who she was.

There was a brush at her mind; an urging, a voice that told her if she rushed headlong at him, he would catch her and hold her tight, and that if she said the right words, he might never let her go.

She wasn't a Gryffindor for nothing.

She all but flew to him, knocking him back with a gust of air and curls. "You stupid, irascible, utterly brilliant wizard." Her words were muffled by his chest, but the hand which came to wrap around her back urged her onward. "How did I possibly think, for all those months, that you _hated_ me? And how could I think I hated you?" She chuckled, and the sound was choked and wet. "We're idiots, the pair of us."

"It must have been your acidic tongue that ensnared me first," he said, sounding put-upon. His arms tightened around her. "As much as it pains me to say, you are right."

She looked up at him. "Get used to saying it," she said fiercely. Then, quietly, "Can I—"

His face softened. "At this point, you need not ask."

The Apericulos made his words tangible, a swath of simmering, coppery heat on her tongue. "Oh," she whispered. "Well. I was always good at following instructions."

And she kissed him once, twice, and again, her blood rushing like glimmering rubies, flashing white bursts of light behind her shut eyes.

With a flick of his fingers, her glasses disappeared.

"You don't need them to see," he breathed against her lips.

She pulled away and looked up at him. "I know. Everything's clearer, now."

"Good," he rumbled. "Now close your eyes."

She smiled wickedly, and kissed him again.

She kept them open.

**x x x**


End file.
